


deep in the cell of my heart

by orphan_account



Category: Psych
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Codependency, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, One Shot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 20:32:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11997429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: 8 weeks after they'd been rescued, neither Shawn nor Carlton can get to sleep on their own.





	deep in the cell of my heart

**Author's Note:**

> hey this is really brief and angst-ridden
> 
> there aren't really many warnings, except an unhealthy codependent (absolutely non-abusive) relationship, and unspecific references to torture and violence
> 
> I don't use a beta so correct me if you find any mistakes and I will gladly edit  
> also I'm a brit so sorry if there are any cultural things? there are two smiths references in this but I figured that was fine because shawn has meat is murder

When Shawn showed up at his door at one in the morning, six weeks after their rescue, two since their discharge from hospital and two days since his return to work, Carlton was relieved. He was pretty sure he hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours a night since he got out of the hospital, dark bags under his eyes that no one had had the guts to comment on.

There was a desperate look in Shawn’s eyes, darkness under his eyes to match his own, making a change to the haunted look that had been sticking around for weeks, unable to be shifted even when Shawn put on the mask with the hollow smile he’d been using to talk to anyone else.

“I,” Shawn started, although he looked lost for words.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Carlton finished for him. Shawn nodded and he let him in.

They barely said a word to each other, a silent agreement between them. Carlton went back to bed, and Shawn stripping down to just his t-shirt and boxers, still-red scars and some still-healing cuts tracing out from under and littering his arms and legs, matching many of Carlton's own, before joining him by his side.

The therapist that had just barely cleared him for starting to come back to work at the station told him that their co-dependency was deeply unhealthy and it was unlikely he’d be cleared for any active duty before he was over it. He’d nodded and played along, unable to admit to her that he didn’t think he could just get over it, or that he even wanted to.

Carlton had hardly touched on their experiences while held captive by a psychopath for over a month, or how they’d found a way to get along out of necessity, came to rely on each other for survival, taunting and taking the brunt of the damage when the other just _couldn’t_.

He didn’t confess the guilt that had been weighing on him since the start, for not listening to Shawn, for not protecting him, for not doing his damn job. If he’d heeded Shawn’s warnings and brought back-up when he’d gone to meet him at the address of their captor – _Charlie Denton_ , he forced himself to think – then maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe they’d be okay.

He didn’t confess the comfort they’d found in each other as the only kind, unpainful human contact available, how they had been there for each other in ways neither of them thought was possible. How somewhere along the line, in some crazy guy’s basement, wrapped in each other’s arms, Spencer had become Shawn, and he had become Carlton.

He certainly didn’t confess that he wasn’t able to sleep without hearing Shawn’s breathing next to him, letting him know he was still alive.

As they settled down, Carlton wrapped one arm around Shawn’s body, chest pressed against his back, careful not to press too harshly on the patchwork of fresh scars and old wounds that he knew lay beneath the shirt. He felt the steady rise and fall of the younger man’s chest beneath his hand.

“Have you spoken to anyone about this?” he murmured into the back of his neck.

“No,” Shawn answered simply.

At some point – he could hardly remember when exactly, most of the days blending together – Shawn had confessed to him how he did it, doing away with his whole psychic routine. Carlton supposed now, looking back on it, it was a sympathetic gesture to him, to keep his mind off the way his torso ached. He thought about Shawn’s eidetic memory, how he probably remembered every waking second of that hellhole, and how he really did think he should see a therapist. But he couldn’t exactly tell Shawn that while he himself had thrown away the numbers of two therapists he’d been referred to.

“What about you?” Shawn’s voice broke through his thoughts.

“Not really,” he replied.

“I thought you spoke to a therapist at the station?”

“Not properly,” Carlton said, “She had my medical file, she knew what happened. I don’t feel the need to talk about it.”

They both fell quiet after that, lying in a comfortable silence for a few minutes.

“The only one I think I could speak to is you,” Shawn said, almost too quiet for Carlton to hear. “No one will understand. Not on any real level.”

Carlton nodded. He knew the feeling.

No one he knew could understand what they had been through together. It was unlikely that they’d even understand the relationship he and Shawn had now. Any psychiatrist or therapist or psychologist would be unable to look beyond the post-traumatic stress and the attachment they’d formed in the midst of trauma. Their relationship would be seen as something to fix, to put back to the way it was, disregarding the fact that both of them had become quite fond of the other.

“I just keep thinking - what if I hadn’t called you? About Charlie Denton, about the house, about everything,” he said, raw emotion edging his voice. “If I’d just gone to look on my own.”

Charlie Denton hadn’t been a suspect. He didn’t even have a criminal record. It was the main reason why Carlton hadn’t taken Shawn’s allegations seriously – how could he be the murderer who tortured a man to death and dumped him in a river? In the past, most of the guys Shawn had called in or led them to were at least know to the police. Denton lived in the middle of nowhere, not so much as a parking ticket on his record, aged 52 and an accountant. It made no sense. Yet, Shawn was right, and they’d both paid the price when Carlton didn’t call for backup.

“Shut up,” he said, a little harsher than he meant to. “What if Guster hadn’t been at that conference and was working with you? Or O’Hara was still in the office when you called?”

Shawn didn’t reply.

“There are plenty of ways this could have played out, Shawn, many of them not good. Stop thinking about something you can’t change,” he said harshly, some part of him realising how hypocritical that was. Silence. He felt Shawn shaking a little under his hand and he softened. “I’m glad it was me, Shawn.”

Shawn turned at that, rolling over to face him. Carlton’s arm remained around him, though he moved to put his hand on Shawn’s hip. His eyes were wet. “What? How can you say that?”

“I’m glad you weren’t alone,” Carlton said, “and if it had to be someone, then the pleasure is mine.”

“Thanks, Morrissey.” A smile ghosted Shawn’s lips, the light of the old Shawn seeping through the cracks.

Carlton allowed himself a small smile in return, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips and pulling Shawn towards his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> 2018 update - i'm orphaning this for personal reasons! thanks for reading all the same


End file.
